Fields of Gold

No one really writes of the pastoral anymore: no ten-page homages to a single blade of grass in a forgotten field. And if the most romantic, the most nostalgic among us, could sit down and write so as to conjure the stillness of the woods as they stand watch around the pasture in those moments between dusk and darkness when the cows have lowed their last till morning-- well all my best in the quest for readership. Thomas Hardy and his compatriots have found a Siberia on the shelves of the library, a Cliffnotes analysis the final insult. It's nothing personal, more a reflection of our own shortcomings than theirs. Life is movement, if not of the body than of the mind: in a post-Darwin existence,  title of the fittest does not come easily. And literary masters though they might be, there is not enough time in the day to remove ourselves so far from the madding crowd.

But Whistlepig, as an exception to most rules, enjoyed a life of leisure, enough so as to appreciate the details that elevate the simple and serene to idyllic. Perhaps it was just in his nature, at heart an animal of the farm, to relate to tales of husbandry. Beyond speculation is the fact of the matter: Whistlepig knew how to slow down, how to place himself, despite the complexities of life, in a simple surrounding. How tempting, in light of the chaos, to be able to do the same. How tempting to take dear Mr. Marlowe up on his so nicely worded invitation: 

          Come live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

Not to fret Dearests, I've got a whiskey that can help with that.